


i have your best interests written all over me

by ericdire (aarobron)



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 21:16:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19731934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aarobron/pseuds/ericdire
Summary: Jordan lets out a deep breath as the blunt edge of Virgil’s thumbnail catches along the dark lines of his new tattoo. It’s healed now but still sensitive, somehow, but that’s probably more to do with the man touching him than anything else.





	i have your best interests written all over me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stevesmcdonalds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stevesmcdonalds/gifts).



> for anna, who had the headcanon that this fic was born from. thank you for listening to me, reassuring me and supporting me always, i love u <3

Two days before the game against Norwich, Virgil lets himself into Jordan's house with the spare key.

(It used to be a spare key. Now, it's just –– Virgil's. He can't even put into words how he felt when he'd stuttered through a speech about Virgil being welcome in his life whenever he pleases, flushing bright red at the tips of his ears and the back of his neck at Virgil's blissful, happy smile).

It's not like it was unexpected or anything, when he heard the scrape of the lock turning and Virgil’s light footsteps in the hallway, but it still made him startle nonetheless. If he _knew_ , if he just knew he was going to have a visitor, he would have made himself look a little more presentable – even though he knows Virgil doesn’t care.

Still, sitting in front of Coronation Street eating a previously-frozen-chuck-in-the-microwave-for-ten-minutes meal out of the tupperware with a fork isn’t exactly the image he wants Virgil to remember him by. (Carol likes him enough to send him home with a carrier bag full of ready made nutritionist-approved dinners every couple of weeks, and he’s too lazy to cook most of the time). Neither is the fact that he hasn’t bothered to get dressed properly after his shower. Even his hair is still damp, curling around his face and dropping into his eyes annoyingly.

So here he sits, in nothing but his pants and one of Virgil’s baggy, faded t-shirts – which is embarrassing enough, thanks, because he likes the way Virgil’s scent sticks to it but he doesn’t want _Virgil_ to know that – with Chesney and Gemma having a blazing row on the telly and the air smelling vaguely like poached salmon and steamed vegetables. 

“Hi,” Virgil says, stopping in the doorway when their eyes meet. He doesn’t seem put off by the sight of his boyfriend slobbing out to primetime ITV, judging by the way his mouth curves up into an affectionate smile and the dimples on his cheeks dip a little deeper. “Missed you loads.” 

Jordan swallows his mouthful of food, feeling the back of his neck heat up at being caught like this. “Missed you too,” he says quietly, biting his lip when Virgil grins even wider. It’s not like they haven’t seen each other – they’re together for eight hours every day, training for the start of the season, but that’s different. They’d agreed (with each other and with Klopp, when they had that terribly awkward chat a few days after they’d made things, well… Official.) that they were going to dial it right back around the rest of the lads, and that was fine. They’d both suggested it, after all.

But that meant that Jordan couldn’t seek Virgil out whenever he wanted, whether it was for a simple, quiet (private) chat, or a hug. He couldn’t lean up on his tiptoes and press a kiss to Virgil’s cheek when he felt like it, and he definitely couldn’t be on the receiving end of any of the casual affection that Virgil loved to show, like a hand on his thigh or an arm around his shoulders.

Which was a crime, really – especially when they’d both been so busy that they couldn’t fit in training, press duties, and time for just the two of them. The interviews had been coming in thick and fast before the start of the season, and it seemed like everyone wanted a piece of them. Champions League winners, runner up in the Premier League, _how do you feel about this season, Jordan? Do you think you can finally step up and end Liverpool’s twenty-eight year wait for the title?_

The BBC had sent Gary Lineker up to interview Jordan for a Match Of The Day pre-season special, tucked away in the press room at Melwood for hours until his throat hurt and his stomach was grumbling unhappily. He liked Gary, he really did –– just not when he knew, at the back of his mind, that he could be at home with Virgil at that moment instead.

And then it had been Sky Sports, sending up a long-suffering Gary Neville and an ecstatic Jamie Carragher for some sort of training challenges for Soccer AM. Jordan had no idea what it actually was; there was a crossbar challenge involved, best out of three, but then he’d decided he couldn’t stomach any more and went home instead, sending one last pitiful glance at Virgil over his shoulder.

It was painful, watching him from afar and knowing what could have been happening in another slightly less cruel universe.

Between all the interviews and the photoshoots (walk-ups, headshots, enough blinding lights that it gave Jordan a headache), they hadn’t spent a moment alone in what felt like weeks. He’d gotten to a point now where he’d accepted it, almost begrudgingly, too used to the ache in his fingertips whenever he stopped himself from reaching out and tracing that soft smile.

“Is that Carol’s salmon?” Virgil asks, eyeing the tray in Jordan’s lap. He doesn’t take food home, far too polite – _thank you for the offer, really Carol, but I wouldn’t want you to go out of your way just for me_ – and probably because he’s not as lazy as Jordan, but he still doesn’t judge. “Did she give you any lasagne?” 

Jordan rolls his eyes and nods, slight embarrassment already faded, because how can he be when Virgil’s obsessive, almost concerning love for Carol’s lasagne is on full display? “Top drawer,” he calls out, and Virgil’s already on the way to the freezer.

  


  


  


  


Later, when they’ve both eaten and Virgil’s already got that blissed out, contented smile on his face (he only gets it on two occasions – after Carol’s lasagne, and. Well, other things), they’re sprawled on the sofa, the second episode of Coronation Street on while Jordan tells Virgil what he’s missed.

He’s got his back against Virgil’s chest, feeling the gentle rise and fall as he breathes, head tucked in the space between his shoulder and his chin. It’s quite nice, soft and warm in the cold August rain, and he realises how much he’s actually missed the domesticity of it all.

“So Robert’s only gone and got Vicky pregnant, but he doesn’t want to tell Michelle because they’ve only just gotten back together and he doesn’t want to ruin it,” Jordan explains dutifully, while a moody shot of the bistro in the rain flashes across the screen.

“But they weren’t together when he got her pregnant?” Virgil asks, confused despite the way he can’t take his eyes off the television. He’d been fascinated with English soaps since the first time he’d popped into Jordan’s unannounced. He’d only come round to drop off something Jordan had left at training, and ended up staying through Emmerdale, Coronation Street, _and_ Eastenders.

“No, but Michelle didn’t know they were seeing each other. And he–” Jordan’s words die in his throat when he feels Virgil’s hand slip from his stomach, where it’s been resting since they settled down after dinner, to the bare skin of his thigh, thumb sweeping soothing motions that makes the dusky hairs there stand on end.

“Carry on, I have loads I need to catch up on,” Virgil says, oblivious to the way Jordan’s heart is in his mouth and his skin feels hot to the touch. He feels like he’s on fire, tuned into every single movement of Virgil’s body. It’s been too long. “...Jord?” 

He lets out a deep breath as the blunt edge of Virgil’s thumbnail catches along the dark lines of his new tattoo. It’s healed now but still sensitive, somehow, but that’s probably more to do with the man touching him than anything else. 

Coronation Street be damned, he twists round until he’s on his knees, hands coming up to frame the strong line of Virgil’s jaw as he stares down at him with heat in his belly and a pulsating determination in his veins.

The smile on Virgil’s face lets Jordan know that he knew what he was doing all along.

  


.

  


It’s not like he hasn’t seen the tattoo before. He was the first person Jordan sent a picture to, when it was still red and slightly swollen, and the younger man sent back a dozen heart eye emojis after ten seconds – and then a few words that really weren’t fit for public consumption a couple of minutes later.

He’s traced it, with his fingers and his tongue, and he’d carefully applied cream to it when Jordan was too tired after his first day back at pre-season. He was always aware of it, when it was still raw and stinging, shifting out of the way whenever Jordan turned over in bed so he didn’t knock it with his knee.

Jordan knew exactly what he thought about it. The first time he’d seen it in the flesh, healed and stark against the pale skin, Virgil had raised his eyebrows, drinking in the sight before lifting his gaze to meet Jordan’s. “Suits you,” he said, and that was Virgil speak for _it’s sexy_.

The point is, Virgil knew about it and was aware of it, probably more than most. He had a front row seat to the healing process and then even afterwards, when he’d gotten more adventurous, touching it whenever he felt inclined to do so.

Jordan still isn’t expecting what happens next, though.

  


.

  


The day of the Norwich game, Jordan is nervous. Well, not nervous, per se, because it’s not like he expects they’re going to lose. He isn’t _worried_ , but there’s still butterflies in his stomach, floating through his veins until he feels nothing but a buzzing in his muscles.

He’s missed this. Wearing red, liverbird over his chest, the Kop’s songs echoing in his ears. A ball at his feet, the instinctive thoughts in his brain telling him where his opponent is, who’s free, which way to pass. All the things that make him _him_ , and he’s finally getting back to it after a few long months.

The dressing room is almost empty. The rest of the lads are already in the tunnel, lining up and ready to take to the stage again, but Jordan taped his toes and then taped them again because he always gets worried for the first game back. That made him a few minutes late, and then he realised that he should probably stretch his legs out again, gesturing for the others to go out before him.

It doesn’t matter, they were already a good five minutes early. Everyone was eager to get the new season underway, returning to the league as European champions, and Jordan was no different, but he knew that he needed to protect his body as much as possible.

“Oi, skip,” he hears a familiar voice call. The deep timbre of it sends shockwaves through his veins, like it always does. On the pitch or in the comfort of Jordan’s living room, it doesn’t matter – he always reacts subconsciously, entire body arching in the direction Virgil’s voice comes from. “Need a hand?”

It’s probably a bad idea, having Virgil’s hands on him this close to kick off. But he also reasons with himself that maybe the pent up frustration will drive him, _so_. “Yeah, go on then,” he says, letting Virgil guide him back until he’s sitting on the bench and the younger man is kneeling in front of him.

He curls his fingers around Jordan’s calf, other hand cupping his heel and pushing back gently. All of his muscles relax at the feel of Virgil’s warm skin and strong touch and he sighs, stroking his thumb along Virgil’s temple. “You’re too good to me,” he says, not missing the way Virgil smiles up at him. 

Virgil carries on stretching Jordan’s legs out in silence, fingers lingering a little longer than necessary, but he doesn’t mind. It’s quite peaceful, really, blocking out all the what ifs and first day nerves that are floating around the back of his mind until he feels like he’s ready to take on the world – as long as he’s got Virgil by his side.

“All done,” Virgil announces, placing Jordan’s left foot on the ground gently. His hands don’t move, though, instead travelling up from his ankle to the back of his knee, and he rises ever so slightly. “Just –– one more thing, for good luck,” he says, and presses the chastest of kisses to Jordan’s tattoo.

“You’re ridiculous,” Jordan says, laughter bubbling up his throat. He still feels fond, though, softness spreading up and filling his chest until there’s room for nothing else but the beat of his heart, and _Virgil-Virgil-Virgil_ sounding in time with it. “But I love you anyway.”

  


  


  


  


They end up winning the game three nil. Jordan scores and Virgil keeps a clean sheet, eyes lit up from the fairytale start they’d all dreamed of. Maybe, Jordan thinks, Virgil’s good luck ritual wasn’t so ridiculous after all. 

He might just be onto something here, and when Jordan tells Virgil as much, he finds that the messy kiss he gets in return is the best moment of the entire night.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ [georginiwijnaldum](https://georginiwijnaldum.tumblr.com/) xo


End file.
